


Where Our Hearts Truly Lie

by FandomNutter



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Asexual Sherlock, Eventual Fluff, Healing, Injury Recovery, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Mentions of past drug use, Mutual Healing, Scars, implied wounds, nothing graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-12
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-02-17 02:04:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2292908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FandomNutter/pseuds/FandomNutter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This work can also be found on my Deviant Art Account, DragonHaven42</p></blockquote>





	1. Saving John Watson

Sherlock lay staring up at the peeling ceiling of 221b. John and Mary had left on holiday over a week ago, and he had spent most of that week in Baker Street. Even the possibility that Moriarty was still out there could not interest him.

He picked up his phone, already aware it would not show him what he wanted. He checked it anyway. Zero texts from John. He had won a raffle for a couple’s stay at a luxury resort, one that believed cell service took away from the experience.

Sherlock put down the phone and glanced over to John’s chair, remembering the night he had revealed Mary’s deception.

Mary, what was he going to do with her? He did not trust her despite what he had told John. His friend had been keeping to himself since that night, he had no idea what John was thinking about his wife.

The detective jumped up suddenly and hurried to his computer. There was a way he could see John. He pulled up the resort’s website and hacked into the security system and cameras. It was huge, and Sherlock back tracked to the guest registry. He typed in their names and waited for a room number, impatiently staring at the rotating hourglass.

“Guests did not check in.”

Sherlock’s heart stopped. He grabbed his coat and thundered down the stairs and out the door

 

The detective knelt at the door of John’s flat and picked the lock. At first glance it appeared clean and innocent, except for the two abandoned packed suitcases. He scanned the flat, hands fumbling to open his magnifying glass. Along with John and Mary’s footprints there were two unfamiliar ones. The carpet was depressed in two streaks, suggesting a body had been dragged from the room, toes leaving their impression.

Sherlock went over to the sink and found an unwashed coffee mug that contained a strange powder residue. The handle started with a clear set of John’s fingerprints, but they had smeared as fingers slackened and slid down the ceramic.

John was in danger. Resisting the urge to run from the flat and comb every inch of the United Kingdom he continued his search. Eventually he came across a rumpled packet stuffed into the bottom of a bin that contained similar power to that in the cup. It was a powerful tranquilizer.

Trying to ignore the panic flitting in his stomach Sherlock looked for any clues of their location. His phone binged and he checked it, finding a text with an address. Frowning he glanced up and noticed a small camera hidden in a book shelf, and received another text,

“I don’t like it when other people play with my toys. Go get your doctor.”

Sherlock yanked the camera off its cord and smashed it before running out to the street to hail a cab. Once he was in the vehicle he checked his phone again,

“Temper, temper. And you are welcome xx”

Sick at heart Sherlock stuffed his phone back into his pocket and pressed his cheek against the cool glass of the cab’s window. Not only was he about to search for John in a large abandoned building, he might be facing Jim Moriarty as well.

 

Sherlock kicked the door in, not having the patience to be delicate. He ran through the maze of equipment and tripped over a bucket. As he staggered to his feet his stomach turned as water tinted crimson rushed out of it, along with a few knifes, scalpels, and other unpleasant tools.

Hoping against hope that they had been left by the original owner and ignoring the sudden metallic bite in the air Sherlock hurried on.

Ahead of him he could barely make out the silhouette of a man standing at an impossible angle. A few paces away he recognized him. Time seemed to slow down as Sherlock reached the man, who’s head of filthy blond hair hung limply over his chest, clothed in a casual button up. His jeans were torn and his shoes scuffed at the toes.

“John,” Sherlock’s voice shook almost as much as his hands as he lifted John’s head to reveal a pale face, “I am going to get you out of these chains.” He whispered before closing his eyes, momentarily overwhelmed.

The thick metal cuffs around John’s wrists had cut into his skin, and Sherlock removed his scarf to pad one. His mind raced as he tried to think of what he could use for the other. When nothing came to him he ripped the scarf in half.

As for the chains, it was a simple matter of using the bolt cutters left mockingly within John’s sight. Sherlock slowly lowered his unconscious friend to the ground and heard a cold voice ring from some where above him, “I wouldn’t have done that if I were you.”

Rage filled him as Sherlock looked up at the speaker, and he clutched John to his chest. Mary was descending a set of narrow stairs, her pregnant belly proceeding her in a way that would have been humorous in another situation.

She shrugged under Sherlock’s glare before gesturing to John, “Thats just my thought on the matter. It’s just that, I mean, that is a lot of blood.”

Sherlock’s head snapped down and his eyes widened in horror. Blood was welling rapidly through John’s shirt.

“I met an amazing woman in Japan a few years ago when I was on a job,” Mary said conversationally as if they were talking over coffee, “Knife work like you wouldn't believe. She worked with layers and carving, but could always clean up after a day’s work and bind everything back together. I have never heard of an infection in one of her patience.”

Sherlock felt sick as Mary continued to talk. He lifted John and unbuttoned his shirt, trying not to look as he replaced the gauze covering most of his torso and bound it with the garment. As he lowered John back to the floor he felt something cold press against the back of his neck. He froze, his friend a few centimeter over the ground.

“Relax, it’s just a gun,” Mary said from directly behind him, “It is rude to ignore a lady when she talks.”

It was surreal. Sherlock let out a mad chuckle. What on earth was he going to do.

Mary smiled, “Did you appreciate the set up? I tried to recreate your cell. Not the same treatment though, I am not a brute.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

She sat heavily on a crate, gun still pointed at Sherlock, “Dad didn’t hug me enough when I was a kid.” She replied sarcastically, “Who knows when we snap. I just wanted to settle down. I got married, and I wanted to live a normal life. But Captain John Watson here can’t really love me. He never did. He acted well enough, but when you came along...” her eyes misted over, “You would have been proud if you had seen him, Sherlock. He gasped the first time a blade met his skin, then he went all stony, you know how I mean. He just took it. It was beautiful.”

Seeing red Sherlock rose to his feet.

“Come now Sherlock, I was really looking forward to a longer chat, but if I need to shoot you now I will. I am still trying to decide how much of you to have around when my husband wakes up. Maybe just your head on the floor.”

Sherlock lunged forward and several things happened at once. Three gunshots rang out, Mary screamed clutching a bleeding hand, and the room filled with men wearing vests and holding impressive firearms. Among the confusion Sherlock found his way back to John’s side.

The men around them were shouting orders.

“Who fired?” Mycroft Holmes barked striding in.

“No one could shoot a bullet out of the air.”

“We didn’t shoot her hand either, Sir.”

Mycroft’s phone vibrated in his pocket as he spotted Sherlock cradling John.

“We need EMTs!” He shouted before keeling next to them. “Sherlock.” he said firmly trying to get his brother’s attention. Sherlock continued staring blankly at the man in his arms. The elder Holmes brother looked down at John and realized how bad off he was. He raised his voice, “Sherlock!” When that did not get a response he slapped his brother across the face. Mycroft experienced a moment of regret as the slap echoed through the room, but he was too aware that Sherlock and John failed or succeeded as a unit.

The blow seemed to do the trick. Sherlock looked at him with terrified eyes and said, “What do we do My?” his voice childish, using a nickname he hadn’t uttered in years.

Mycroft put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “We are waiting for help. The EMTs are on their way and will take John to the hospital.”

“Can I go with him?” Sherlock asked, his eyes begging. “I have to go with him.”

“Of course Will.” Mycroft replied, trying to keep concern out of his voice.

“Sherlock,” Sherlock said softly stroking John’s cheek, “I like Sherlock, it is more unique than Will. Everyone is named Will.”

“That’s right,” Mycroft mumbled as his brother babbled on. Two EMTs were wheeling a stretcher over to them and Mycroft pried Sherlock off John and helped him to his feet.  
He absentmindedly patted Sherlock’s back and took his phone from his pocket to check the message from earlier.

“Those bullets were my gift to you Mister Holmes, happy birthday.”


	2. He is a Detective, not a Doctor

John was in a coma. Thats what the doctors had told him. Sherlock did not leave John’s side except when he was wheeled off for procedures. So many procedures, surgeries, skin grafts, stitches.

Now John lay peacefully in his hospital bed attached to glowing machines and monitors. Tubes and needles were keeping him alive. Sherlock alternated between pacing and huddling in the chair next to the bed. The rare seconds his mind wasn't focused on John he was attacking himself. He had regressed. He felt self hatred, loathing. He had practically turned into a child the night he had found John, in front of his brother of all people.  
And now he was useless. Why hadn’t he checked the site before? He could have found John sooner and saved him a lot of pain.

Filled with anger he drifted off to sleep.

 

A week later there was no change in John’s condition. Sherlock ignored anyone who came to visit and refused food. He was a gaunt shadow in the chair, and the nurses didn’t bother to usher him out anymore when they came to take care of their patient.

They walked out of the room and Sherlock shifted in the seat, glad to see they had shaved John’s face that day. His friend’s hand slid off the bed and Sherlock experienced a moment of annoyance at the nurses before gently replacing it in its proper spot, holding it a few seconds longer than he needed to.

He looked at John’s face, pleading with him to wake up. A medical student entered with a small radio and placed it on the window sill. He noticed the detective’s confused gaze and said, “We try music therapy on all of our coma patients. Several studies-”

“I am an idiot!” Sherlock roared jumping from his chair. He rushed out of the room, leaving the frightened student behind, his mind mapping out the quickest rout to 221b. No time for a cab, he ran, dodging cars and down long streets. Distance seemed irrelevant and he burst into 221 Baker Street past a confused Mrs Hudson and into his flat. He grabbed the violin and bow before starting his journey back to the hospital.

 

He staggered back to the hospital room, energy waning. Sherlock stood panting in the door way clutching the instrument.

Wiping sweat out of his eyes he unplugged the radio, not bothering to look for an off switch. He shrugged off his coat and tossed it to the chair. As he brought the bow to the violin's strings, a new energy surged through him. Powered by his exhaustion and grief, a new composition was brought out of the strings. A haunting melody reverberated throughout the ward. Sherlock closed his eyes, playing blind, allowing the bow to guide itself.

A doctor bustled into the room, “Sir-” but stopped, transfixed by the man playing in front of her. The spell was broken when the music stopped and Sherlock collapsed in the chair. He was tired, his fatigue a combination of hunger and sleeplessness. Through his half closed eyes he saw a green spike. How odd.

His eyes snapped open. The green spike was on a screen on a monitor. It was growing smaller and Sherlock leapt to his feet, returning bow to strings.

The spike rose again as he played and Sherlock let out a giddy laugh. A monitor began to beep and people in scrubs rushed in, surrounding John.

He played softly, making sure the medics could hear each other, but loud enough that his friend could hear him. When the doctors dispersed they were smiling and one pulled him aside.

“Mr. Watson is stable, but we administered some sedatives so we can bring him back gently. Due to the nature of his injures it is likely he will need long term psychological treatment, but as of right now he is doing unexpectedly well. It is amazing that he responded to your playing so quickly.”

Sherlock could only nod before returning to his chair. He took one of John’s hands and held it, not entirely sure of his motive. John’s fingers twitched before curling to interlock with Sherlock’s.

Sherlock stared at their hands before turning his attention to John’s face, studding it like he had never seen it before. His mouth sagged open slightly to reveal crooked teeth. A small line of saliva trailed down his chin and Sherlock resisted the urge to wipe it way. The staff at the hospital had done a decent job on his hair. It was a bit shorter than usual, but it was clean and neat.

His eyes traveled down and he watched as John’s chest rose and fell, slightly restricted by his bandages.

Finally his gaze returned to their hands. John’s seemed so small and delicate in his own. He smoothed his thumb over the skin he was privileged to touch and contentedly glanced back to John’s face. He froze when he realized John’s eyes were open.

Sherlock made to retract his hand but John squeezed it weakly. He watched John intently but his friend seemed unable to speak. After a few minutes John’s eyes drifted shut once more.

 

When John was released from the hospital he moved back into 221B. Not wanting John to experience unnecessary stress Sherlock went back to the flat he had shared with Mary and retrieved any essential possessions for him.

Sherlock returned to find John staring absently into the kitchen. He put the box he was carrying down with a clatter and considered the man in front of him who seemed to be in a trance.

Possibly roused by the sound John wandered into the kitchen and put the kettle on. Sherlock sat at his microscope. There was nothing on the slide, but it provided a covert way to surveil his flatmate. As he watched him reach for a mug the detective remembered how the doctor had warned about potential psychological side effects. John had been advised to see a therapist but Sherlock, knowing his friend’s opinion of psychiatrists, doubted he would

Once he had poured himself a cup of tea John wandered back to his arm chair and turned on the telly. He stayed there all day, his untouched drink gone cold. Sherlock watched him worriedly, because even though he himself did not eat often, John tended to require steady meals.

Mind troubled Sherlock flopped into his bed and shut his eyes. Before he was too deeply asleep he heard a muttered, “Budge over.”

“Huh?” he mumbled, tired eyes squinting.

“My beds got a half layer of dust, budge.”

Sherlock was too tired to complain or think straight, and he slid to the far edge of his bed, allowing John to lay next to him. His flatmate slept with his back to him and Sherlock positioned himself so he was nearly falling off the mattress before attempting to sleep again.

 

Sherlock woke up and found he was alone. Yawning he shuffled out of his room and saw John in his chair with the telly on, a new cup of untouched tea at his side.

As he watched John’s empty face Sherlock devised a plan. He left the flat and went shopping, a task he loathed but was willing to undergo under the circumstances. He returned to the flat an hour later, patience thin but triumphant.

Sherlock pulled a griddle from a bag and placed it on the stove. John looked up from the TV apprehensively when he heard the burner click on but did not speak.

“I am cooking John.” Sherlock said, answering the question in John’s mind.

His flatmate raised his eyebrows before turning his attention back to the screen. Sherlock emptied the second bag and organized the ingredients. He was a chemist, how hard could this be?

 

Really hard, apparently. Sherlock stared at the pile of smoldering pancakes in front of him. Glad he had bought two boxes he dumped them into the bin with a sigh.

 

Twenty minutes later Sherlock stacked a pile of less burnt pancakes onto a plate and nervously walked over to John. The blond man’s gaze was vacant, and although it was directed to the TV it was clear he was not taking in the seven day forecast. Sherlock switched it off and John blinked looking up at the detective, who shoved the plate at him.

“For me?” John asked, sounding touched. He took the plate from Sherlock who sat in his chair waiting expectantly.

John chuckled, “You forgot to give me a fork.”

“Yes, right, of course!” Sherlock exclaimed getting up and scrambling to the kitchen. He had been so distracted wanting to see John’s reaction and by the fact he was speaking that it completely slipped his mind. He returned a minute later with the utensil and John braved a bite of cake anxiously observed by the detective.

“It’s good.” he said with a smile and Sherlock relaxed.

They sat together in silence broken only by the occasional scraping when John would removed the charred parts of his food. Sherlock snatched up the plate as soon as John finished eating and put it in the sink. When he returned to the living room the TV was on again.


	3. Step One, Acceptance

John seemed to run on an automatic cycle. He would wake up early, make himself tea, and sit in front of the telly. He did not leave the flat, and hardly seemed himself except when Sherlock brought him meals. On some occasions he seemed back to normal during these times, but he always returned to staring at the tv screen and ignoring his tea. Then he would shower and sleep next to Sherlock.

After a few days he stopped making excuses.

 

One night Sherlock woke up realizing he did not have the now familiar warmth next to him. He opened his eyes and saw his flatmate sitting at the edge of the bed.

“John?” he asked sleepily sitting up.

John turned to him, his face stony. He stared at Sherlock’s abdomen and said, “Show me. ”

Show him what? Sherlock’s mind raced as John watched him, waiting. Sherlock reached slowly for the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head, a cascade of black curls covering his face. John scooted closer to him and hesitantly put a hand against the scar on Sherlock’s chest. 

“I married her Sherlock, I am so sorry.” John said, tears welling in his eyes.

Sherlock stared helplessly at his crying friend before uncertainly wrapping his arms around him. The detective rested his chin in John’s hair as he held him. They sat together until John’s gentle breathing told Sherlock he had fallen asleep.

He lowered both of them and curled around his friend. Sherlock felt John’s steady heart beat through the thin shirt. He could also feel places where the skin was raised, uneven, and as he drifted off to sleep he realized he had never seen John’s injuries.

 

Sherlock woke up the next morning unsurprised to find he was alone. As he exited his room he glanced over at John’s chair. It was empty. He frowned and checked the flat. John wasn't there.

“Mrs Hudson!” Sherlock bellowed down the stairs.

“Yes dear?” She called back.

“Is John with you?”

“No, is some thing wrong?”

Wasting no time on a reply Sherlock walked back to his room and began changing into his usual outfit. As he was buttoning his shirt he heard the door slam and he hurried out of his room to find John taking off his coat.

“Where were you?” Sherlock demanded, letting out a mental sigh of relief.

John raised his eyebrows. “On a walk.”

“You haven’t left the flat for weeks,” Sherlock said accusingly, “what am I suppose to think when I wake up and can’t find you anywhere? Especially with Moriarty back.”

Noticing how shook-en up Sherlock looked John’s face softened, “Lets go out to eat and then we can talk.”

 

They slid into a booth in a quiet diner and flipped through their menus. “I don’t think I will be able to go back to work for a while.” John said suddenly.

“My brother will make sure you can get a job when ever you are ready. Until then he will fund us, don’t protest.”

John sighed and shook his head, “I wouldn’t mind a case though.”

“I will talk to Lestrade, I am sure he has a few hundred by now.”

A waitress took their orders and John mumbled, “I still can not believe you haven't taken a case since....” he trailed off.

Sherlock shrugged, “I am lost without my blogger. You see things I can’t, you understand people in ways I can’t, and even when you are completely clueless you cater to my narcissistic nature.”

John shook his head smiling, “You never cease to amaze me.”

 

It was raining when they left the dinner and John swore softly. His jumper was warm but not weather resistant.

“Here.” Sherlock said removing his coat and handing it to him.

John laughed, “But you will get soaked.”

“I will be fine.” Sherlock mumbled, but the pelting rain drops had already started to absorb into his shirt. The detective resolutely stood in the rain until he got a cab and they climbed in. Sherlock's hair was clumped around his face and he was shivering.

John took off the long coat and tossed it back to him, “Told you.”

They shared a smile but John’s faded quickly. He turned to the window, and by the time they were back on Baker Street he was sitting with a grim expression.


	4. Reminders

“John!” Sherlock called excitedly as he rapped on the bathroom door. “We have a case! Triple homicide, the bodies were found on a boat floating in the Thames!”

“Right, give me a mo.” John called back, and the sound of the shower ceased.

Sherlock paced impatiently. It had been ages since they had worked on a case and John was taking longer than usual in the bathroom. He snatched up a folder from a table for something to do. Inside was a letter from Mycroft explaining the termination process that had led to the end of John’s marriage to Mary that he had been gracious enough to undergo for John’s sake.

“Pompous git.” Sherlock muttered before sitting down to read it through again.

 

When the bathroom door finally clicked open Sherlock glanced up. John walked out wearing jeans and a jumper, which clung to his still damp skin. Sherlock frowned as his friend disappeared to find socks. It must be horridly itchy to wear a jumper immediately showering, why hadn't he put on his bathrobe? Speaking of bathrobes, John hadn't worn one since his return to 221b. He alway seemed to change...

“Ready to go?” John asked, jolting him from his train of thought.

“Wha- yes.” the detective replied quickly before jumping from his seat and leading the way out the door.

 

They arrived at the crime scene, a small dock with a single boat tethered to it, just as Lestrade finished putting up a perimeter of yellow tape. The DI grinned at them, “It is nice to see you two in public.”

John attempted a smile and Sherlock briskly inquired, “The bodies?”

“Still on the boat, which was reported stolen a few days ago. The victims are unidentified, two men and a woman. My guys are itching to have a go at them, I am not sure how much time you have.”

The detective nodded curtly and said “Come along, John.” Before striding to the dock, gravel crunching under foot.

Once they entered the barge Sherlock breathed a quiet, “Oh this is beautiful.”

John tutted and Sherlock tried to hide his excitement as he turned to his blogger, “This is quite a unique crime scene, can you see why?”

John shrugged, and Sherlock bit back disappointment. John was not up to working capacity just yet. “This boat is a class room,” Sherlock explained gesturing with his hand, “Each of the victims was killed in a different way.” He pointed to the body nearest, a teenage boy, “strangulation,” he pointed to the next body, a middle aged man, “poison,” and finally to the woman, “gun shot wound. These are examples of different methods, different skill sets. Each victim has abrasions on their wrists where they were bound, probably with manila rope, a bit careless of our murder, it often leaves fiber behind. They were brought-”

The detective stopped talking abruptly when he noticed that John was absentmindedly rubbing the scars left over from the metal clasps on his own wrists.

“John?” Sherlock asked quietly.

The blond man blinked and frowned, “Sorry, go on.” he said before rolling down his sleeves and crossing his arms over his chest.

Sherlock shook his head and clamored off the boat. He hurriedly whisper the details to Lestrade, watching John approach them. “The victims won’t be found in any missing persons adds. They were chosen because they are dispensable, and it is likely they were homeless. ‘Cleaning up the streets’ is a common way organized criminals collect victims without too much public outcry. I will check in with my network, they should have an idea who was behind this. ”

“So this was gang activity?” The DI asked.

“Yes, I would not be surprised if we start finding more bodies in similar conditions.” Sherlock turned to John who had just reached them, “Ah John, there you are, time to head home.”

“I am not done with you yet Sherlock!” Lestrade said sternly.

“No one ever is, Gram.” Sherlock called back as he lead John away ignoring the DI’s annoyed mutter, “It’s Greg.”

 

Sherlock gazed at the man lying next to him. His flatmate was wearing a long sleeved shirt rather than his usual t-shirt. The detective deduced this was because of that day’s experience rather than the temperature because John had pulled the sleeves far over his hands. As always John’s back was to him, but somehow it seemed more defensive now. He was hiding, Sherlock realized, purposefully concealing what ever evidence remained of Mary’s abuse.

With difficulty he resisted the urge to move closer to the other man, it was his nature to investigate, but he felt his motives were not purely scientific. Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes. In his mind he heard his brother scold, “Human Error.”


	5. The Story of Sherlock Holmes

Sherlock opened his eyes as John shuffled out of the room. He rolled over and saw it was too early for John to be awake for the day and followed him.

Sherlock found his flatmate in the bathroom clutching the sink, knuckles white, staring into the mirror. When John noticed Sherlock in the reflection he seemed to wilt. The dark haired man walked over and sat on the closed toilet lid, waiting. John shook his head and made his way back to their room. Sherlock gave him a head start before perusing him.

When Sherlock entered the room John was looming by the bed, illuminated by the moonlight pouring in the window. “You tend to bottle up your emotions until you explode. Your silence worries me.”

John’s face contorted into an awful smile, “Do think I haven’t noticed? You sneaking glances at me, trying to deduce what is hidden under my jumper. Do you want to see what was done to me?” he growled before ripping off his shirt and shaking it, “I am just bits and pieces sown together. I am not even completely me anymore. I am a fucking human quilt!” He slumped onto the bed, exhausted by his outburst.

Sherlock approached him carefully and sat next to him, “John Watson,” he said trying to meet his eyes, but the blond man looked away, “if you weren't, as you so delicately put it, a fucking human quilt, you would not be here right now and I very much doubt I would be either.”

John looked up at him in confusion.

“If you will allow me to examine your scars, I will tell you the story of William Sherlock Scott Holmes.”

John bit is lip and hesitated, trying to think of an appropriate response, before saying, “Okay.” And lying on his back, forcing his tense muscles to relax.

Sherlock sat cross legged next to him and starting at the old gun shot wound on John’s shoulder looked over the rough, discolored, pulled and stretched skin that was his flatmate’s chest. He placed a delicate finger on the largest mark and John flinched. Sherlock withdrew his hand instantly and looked at John, who mumbled, “No, it’s fine.”

Sherlock replaced the finger and began to speak, tracing the mark across John’s skin, “Mrs. and Mr. Holmes lived in a manor house in the country and they had a son, a prodigy. They decided to have a second child and were delighted to find out Miss Holmes was due to have twins.” As Sherlock spoke his hands gently examined every fault, accepting them, making them okay. John felt himself relax under the man’s deft fingers, and allowed his words to wash over him.

“A boy and a girl. But a complication occurred a few weeks before they were due and one of the fetuses perished. An emergency section was need to save the other. The mother fell ill, and her elder son had to care for the baby as her husband tended her. Quite a tight bond developed between the brothers, as it would with any in that situation. For years the younger brother, William, looked up to his brother as a parent as well as a sibling, more so than his own mother and father.”

“William was lanky and awkward throughout his early years, and the local boys made fun of him. This did not bother him too much because they were unintelligent and dim. He, on the other hand, had the best possible education thanks to private tutors and his brother.”

“But one day his brother got exciting news,” Sherlock’s voice darkened, but his touch remained gentle, “the government was offering him a job. He would start right away and he would be gone for a few years. It was a huge honor.”

“William begged his brother to stay with him, but it did not change his mind. Once My- his brother had gone the local boys became more vicious and started physically assaulting Will. Every night the boy returned with fresh wounds, all of which he hid from his parents.”

“After one particularly rough beating Will was left in a back alley. Barely conscious he was helped up by a man who said he had something that could help him with the pain. Skip forward a few months and Will is stealing things from around the manor to trade for stimulants and narcotics.”

Sherlock’s tone is harsh now, his eyes cold. He seemed to have finished his meticulous examination and he rested a hand on each knee, his fingers digging into his pajama clad legs. “His brother came home on a week Mummy and Father had gone on holiday to surprise his little brother. He was met with the sight of his brother staring at the ceiling with glassy eyes.”

“He disposed of all the drugs and paraphernalia while Will as out of it. When Will came around they got in a fight and his brother threatened to tell their parents. In blind rage Will ran away. He lived on the streets, squatted with other junkies for years avoiding his brother’s eye.”

“One night there was a raid at the drug den. The dealer had come to drop off his goods when several police officers bursted in. They clearly had no idea what they were walking into because they were completely out gunned. Half of them were shot dead the second they entered and the others were disarmed and tied up in the basement. Will was fascinated by the newcomers and slipped past the guards to see them.”

Sherlock’s voice lost some of its coarseness as he continued, “They were unconscious except for a young deputy a few years older than him. He was looking around terrified, his mouth gagged with a piece of cloth tied in his prematurely greying hair. I pitied him. He watched me nervously as I approached and put a finger to my lips. He nodded and I untied his gag. ”

“Alcohol stunk in his breath and and I told him to give up on his girlfriend, that she would never be loyal. That received a puzzled look. “You are an only child,” I said trying to remember what my brother had taught me, “and you are living rough. You joined the MPA right after your birthday last month.” He stared at me for a long time before saying if he ever got out of this and I cleaned up he would get me a job.”

“I left him and returned with someone’s forgotten clothes. I cut his bonds and had him change out of his uniform. We snuck out a window and stole a truck. I got a job and was back under my brother’s radar. Nicotine patches sustained me for a few years, but my resolve began to slip.”

“My brother tightened his net around me and I thought I was going to snap. My life lost value in my eyes and I was not overly keen on keeping it. I started running my mouth. One of the people who heard me was Mike Stamford.” Sherlock laid down and shifted so he was facing John, “and then I was introduced to the bravest and kindest and wisest man I have ever known. He managed to salvage what good was in me and put me right. And then I found him weeks ago all battered up. I knew if he did not recover I wouldn’t either. But he did, and although I can never change what he thinks of himself I want him to know no matter how he looks he will always be,” Sherlock seemed to struggle to find a word, “apprecia-...no, loved, by me.”

John blinked at him before offering Sherlock one of his hands. The magnitude of what the detective had shared with him deeply effected John. Until now he had never let Sherlock see his battle wound, and had made an extra effort hide his most resent mars. He knew Sherlock had guarded his past and personal flaws with the same care. The amount of trust shared between them was staggering, and it was as if they had come to a mutual understanding.

“Sherlock?”

“Yeah?”

“What happened to your back? You did not have those marks in Buckingham palace.”

“Serbians,” Sherlock said, his eyes sleepily gazing at the other man’s face, “One of my plans that, well, did not go to plan.” he took John’s hand and linked their fingers together, lining up his barely visible cuff scars with John’s more resent ones.

“Can I see them again, now?” John asked.

Sherlock nodded and made to move, but frowned and looked at their hands, “I don’t...I don’t really want to let go.” He said with an embarrassed laugh.

Before John could tell him it could wait Sherlock had reluctantly disengaged his fingers and turned his back to him. Squinting a little to see in the dark John tsked, “These opened before they got a good chance to heal, oh that is very you. As your doctor I must say I am a bit disappointed.”

Sherlock turned back to face him and mumbled, “Well being thrown to the ground and smashed into a table didn’t exactly help.”

The blond man’s brow furrowed in confusion before the realization hit him, “Oh, Sherlock, I am so sorry.”

“You are forgiven, I deserved it, think no more about it.”

“I just hope you really have forgiven me and are not just saying it.”

Sherlock took John’s hand again and said, “I have.”

John smiled and felt himself become drowsy, the euphoria of the moment finally overcome by the need to sleep.

“Hey Sherlock?” he yawned.

“Hm?”

“I think I might be gay.” he whispered, humor in his voice.

“Mrs Hudson will be overjoyed” Sherlock mumbled sleepily, “she will host a party and invite half of London.”

John groaned, “We can worry about that in the morning.”

“I am sure-”

“Shut up or I am going back to my room.”

Sherlock shut up.


	6. It’s a Girl

The news reached Sherlock on one of the rare mornings John decided to sleep in. He had ignored the first buzz, caught in a sleepy haze with his face buried in John’s shoulder. The second time it buzzed he dislodged an arm and half heartedly felt for his phone. At the third buzz he heard a faint beep and realized John was being texted too.

It was probably important. Sherlock reluctantly got out of bed and turned on the lamp. Blinking he picked up his phone and opened the message,

“Congratulations, it’s a girl!”

Sherlock frowned and checked the number. It was blocked, but he had a feeling he knew who sent it. He opened the next message, “Ready to be dads?”

Mary. Sherlock dropped his phone. He had completely forgotten that she was, had been, pregnant. He threw on some clothes and deleted the messages from John’s phone, the last of which read, “I am willing to adopt the little tyke.” before dashing out the door.

 

Mycroft looked up as Sherlock burst into his office. “You have to take her!” he rambled desperately, “Moriarty wants her and John can’t raise her, it will ruin him. She can not be put up for adoption because John won’t be able to live with the fact she will be in danger, you have to take her!”

“Slow down,” Mycroft said getting to his feet. “What are you trying to tell me?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but the phone rang and his brother held up his hand. He turned away from Sherlock and answered it in a low voice, “yes thank you,” before hanging up. “Mary-” he began.

“Yes I know,” Sherlock snapped, “If you had listened to me you could have saved us a lot of time.”

“You can not just interrupt someone shouting and expect them to understand you. But moving to the more pressing matter, how did you know before I did?”

“Jim Moriarty has been texting me.”

Mycroft nodded solemnly, “I have heard from him too. What does this have to do with me?”

“Mary’s child,” Sherlock said wearily, “we both know she is in danger with Moriarty back. John still needs to heal, he is not in a fit state to raise a child, even with my help. I also fear that having a constant reminder of their relationship will be detrimental. There is only one place capable of protecting her, but she can’t exactly move in with the royal family. That leads us to our second best option, you.”

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably, “Besides the important work that I would be distracted from, how can a single man in his late forties take care of a newborn?”

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively, “I am sure a man with your influence can pool up enough money and equipment to raise a child. And your assistant, whats her name, Athena?”

“Anthea.”

“Could probably help you as well, that is her job. It will most likely just sleep, cry, and eat for the first few months.”

“What does John have to say about this?”

Sherlock hesitated, “He doesn’t even know.”

“Maybe you could include him in planning the future of his child?”

“I can’t. He has made so much progress, I can not loose him now. Just have the kid collected and keep an eye on her. You can even train her up to be your successor.”

Sherlock made to leave but his brother called after him, “Sherlock, I don’t think I can do it.” He turned back and to his surprise saw Mycroft’s lip was trembling, “What if I mess up again?”

Sherlock was caught in between being insulted and wanting to comfort his brother. He was going soft.

“You will do fine,” he said, but his words sounded empty.

 

John was working in the kitchen when Sherlock got home. As he hung up his coat he realized his flatmate was singing softly to himself. Smiling Sherlock walked up behind John and snaked his arms around his waist.

John jumped and hissed, “Jeez, Sherlock I almost stabbed you with my fork! Don’t do that!”

Sherlock sighed and pressed his cheek into John’s hair. John was using a new shampoo, it was softer than usual and had the subtle sent of almond. “Keep singing.”

He could sense John’s blush and chuckled.

“My singing is really bad.”

“So are your omelets...”

“Sherlock-”

“But I love them anyway.”

“Nope,” John said managing to escape the embrace and put a jar of jam back in the fridge, “maybe some day. Maybe some day when you haven’t insulted my cooking.”

He took his plate and sat at the table and Sherlock followed suit. “Toast?” John asked holding a piece out to him, and he took it automatically. “Where did you go by the way? To get the paper weight from Lestrade?” John asked through a mouth full of toast. When Sherlock didn’t reply he continued, “Come on, you went all spanish inquisition on me when I took a walk, where were you?”

“If you must know I was with my brother.”

“You were with Mycroft? Why didn’t you just say-” John suddenly dropped his fork, “It was today, wasn’t it?”

Suddenly John’s eyes were faraway and Sherlock dove to his side. He stood not knowing what to do, his mind clouded with panic. Should he play his violin? Talk to him? Make him tea?

He knelt at John’s feet and took both of his hands in his own, “Listen to me John,” he pleaded, and after a second John looked down at him, “She will be safe and cared for, I promise. My brother and I will make sure of it.”

“But she is my daughter.” John replied softly.

Sherlock squeezed John’s hands and closed his eyes, “I know, but raising her will do you more harm than good. I can’t watch you go down hill again, please.”

John sat back looking tired, “I know, it’s just a lot to take in. We were not even planning for kids, so this entire thing has been a bit surreal. Next time something like this happens, talk to me before Mycroft.”

“How many other assassins have you gotten pregnant?” Sherlock mumbled from the floor.

John aimed a light kick at him, the hint of a smile playing on his lips. “Prat.” he said affectionately.

“Always.” Sherlock replied grinning before standing up and attempted to dust off his filthy pant legs. “This floor is disgusting.”

“One of your most brilliant deductions yet.”

“Just trying to hold a conversation you can understand.” Sherlock scoffed indignantly.

Smiling John dropped his plate into the sink and walked over to Sherlock, “Of course, love.” He whispered before standing on his toes to leave a kiss on the detective's cheek. He stepped back to admire his work. Sherlock was frozen in place, a blush spreading from his nose to his ears. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but when it produced a guttural sound he snapped it shut.

A tiny squeak from behind him made John whip around. His landlady was standing in the doorway, a look of delight on her face.

“Christ Mrs Hudson knock!” John shouted, his face glowing.

“Sorry dears,” she said, her eyes twinkling in a way John did not like, “I just popped up up to tell you I was heading to Tescos and wanted to know if you needed anything. But I will leave you to it.” She hurried out of sight muttering something about Mrs Turner.

“Well,” John said to the silent flat, “we won’t have to break the news ourselves.”

 

John and Sherlock turned off their phones that night, tired of the constant messages of “congratulations” and “finally.” They sat in their chairs and ate takeaway in silence. John started to nod off before shaking himself awake. He noticed Sherlock staring at him, and when the dark haired man realized he had been caught he looked away quickly.

John frowned, “Is something wrong?”

“No John, it’s just I can not, well I don’t like...sexual relationships. I love everything we have been doing,” He added hastily, “sharing a bed, and you kissing me was, it’s nice. But I am asexual.”

John let out a relived laugh and Sherlock looked at him with hurt in his eyes.

“I am sorry!” John said quickly, “I was just expecting you to say one of us was dying or something. Love isn't all about sex, and it does not need it either. And I love you.”

Sherlock looked unconvinced, “Your sexual history-,”

“Sherlock, do you honestly think I am going to leave you just because you don’t want to fuck?” John interrupted.

“No, of course not...” Sherlock trailed off. Hearing the words out loud finally confirmed what he hadn't dared to hope. Feeling the weight of uncertainty cleared from his mind he added, “Thank you.”


	7. Motherly Mycroft

Mycroft looked down at the crying newborn with distain. Anthea had retrieved the child from the hospital and brought her in happily nestled in her arms. He had found his assistant's cooing over the baby distracting and had let her go home early. Well he was regretting it now.

He reluctantly placed a few fingers to the child’s face and her sobbing ceased. Mycroft gingerly wiped her runny nose with a handkerchief and she closed her eyes contently. He stared at her in surprise and lifted his hand from the cot.

To his alarm her face crumpled instantly and she began to cry again. In resignation he wheeled his chair over to the cot. He sat down and put a few fingers in her hair, which was surprisingly thick for a child born a few days previous. He watched as her tear stained face relaxed. Her breathing slowed and could not help but marvel at how tiny she was. Mesmerized, Mycroft drifted off to sleep.

 

When Anthea woke him the next morning he was cramped. “You have a meeting with the Chinese ambassador in less then an hour.” She said briskly as he pried himself from the chair. “I will take care of her, you need to hurry Sir.”

‘I am getting to old for this’ Mycroft thought to himself as he tried to smooth the creases from his suit. Unfortunately life would become unbearably dull if he quit. Sighing he walked out to the awaiting car.

 

The next day was Anthea’s day off. Mycroft sat at his desk with his head in his hands as the baby screamed. How could such a loud sound come from such a tiny body?  
He dialed Anthea’s number and waited impatiently for her to pick up.

“Mr. Holmes?”

Mycroft had to shout to be heard over the baby’s cries, “I have fed her, and I had Dave from the desk change her. How do I make her stop crying?”

“Maybe you are holding her wrong.” Anthea suggested.

“I am not holding her, she is just in her cot.”

Anthea sighed, “When was the last time you were around an infant?”

“About thirty years ago.”

There was a few seconds of silence on the other line before she continued, “Try swaddling her. Infants need to bond with their parents and you are her legal guardian,” Mycroft flinched, “you need to spend time with her. Try holding her while you work.”

 

This worked surprisingly well. For the next few weeks Mycroft held her cradled in one arm as he filled out paperwork. It became comfortable, routine even, to sit at his desk with her. Instead of crying she would just sniffle and Mycroft would feed her or call Dave, who became her official diaper changer.

 

One day when she had grown too big to hold Anthea walked in to find her sleeping in a plush dog bed that took up half of Mycroft’s desk. He had one hand on her back and dared his assistant to laugh. She just smiled and shrugged, “If it works, it works.”

He relaxed and stroked his hand through the baby’s hair which had turned ginger over the past few weeks. There would be a doctor coming in later that day and he wanted to get her DNA tested. He had a hunch she wasn’t John’s

 

Mycroft gently placed the girl into her cot with a fluffy stuffed cat. He was expecting someone his office, but it wasn't anyone official so he did not have to worry about her company. He carefully stowed her bed under his desk and continued with his paperwork.

Minutes latter there was a knock at the door and a man with salt and pepper hair entered the office. He walked directly to Mycroft’s desk and presented a file.

“Thank you Detective Inspector.” Mycroft said dismissively not looking up.

“Please, call me Greg.”

“Greg, then.”

Lestrade turned from him and noticed the cot. “Who is this?” he asked making his way over to it and Mycroft stiffened. “Is she yours?”

“Legally, yes. She is the daughter of Mary Watson.” He barely kept contempt out of his voice at the mention of the name.

“May I?” Lestrade asked, indicating he wanted to hold her. Mycroft nodded and Greg carefully lifted her. “Hello little one.” he whispered and she giggled.

Mycroft’s brow creased, he had never heard her do that before. A little jealousy shot through him and he rose to join Greg.

“Whats her name?” he asked bouncing her a little in his arms.

“She doesn’t have one.”

“What, did you forget to name her?” Lestrade asked with a joking laugh.

Yes, he had.

The DI stared at him, “Wait, you actually forgot?”

“I have been busy.” Mycroft said defensively. He looked at the girl in Lestrade’s arms. His girl.  
“Do you have any ideas?” he asked lamely.

“Not off the top of my head, no.”

“Well if you think of any, drop by.”

“Yes Sir.” Lestrade replied with a twinkle in his eye. He held the baby a little longer before carefully lowering her into the cot. She heaved herself up, clutching the bars so she could watch him leave. Lestrade turned at the door and noticed her eyes on him. He gave her a little wave before disappearing.

Mycroft pulled her bed from under the desk placed it in its usual spot. As he carried her back to the desk and she continued to stare at the door with a slight frown on her face. Mycroft ran his fingers through her hair and she eventually yawned and closed her eyes.

 

A few days later there was a knock at his door and Lestrade sauntered in. “I hope you don’t mind, I brought us lunch.” he said holding up a large paper bag.

“Thank you, pull up a seat.” Mycroft said before sending a text to cancel his catering.

Lestrade carried a chair to the desk and sat facing him. He glanced at the girl sleeping between them and asked, “Is that a dog bed?” as he removed containers from the bag.

“Yes.” Mycroft replied curtly.

“Really clever, I’d have never though of that.”

Mycroft’s lip twitched at the unexpected flattery. Lestrade placed a plate with utensils in front of him and opened the containers revealing grilled chicken, salad, and rice. He sat back in his chair and in panic Mycroft realized he was suppose to serve himself. Should he take half of everything? Would Gregory do the same? What if he expected to have leftovers?

He used his fork to spear a piece of chicken and put it on his plate. Seeming to sense Mycroft’s unease Lestrade put some food on his own plate and took a bite of rice before looking up at him, to find the Holmes brother frowning.

“Is something wrong?” Lestrade asked nervously.

Mycroft finished chewing before replying, “No, it is exceptionally good, freshly prepared a half an hour ago. But there is not a single restaurant with in a half hours drive, nor within an hour’s that uses this combination of spices.”

Lestrade let out a low whistle, “I should have known you were like your brother, I threw this together because I had the day off.”

Mycroft added some more food to his plate. “I am not impressed often, but your cooking abilities are exemplary.”

Due to the talk the child began to stir. She opened her eyes, and spotting Lestrade, gurgled happily. He held out a hand to her and she clutched his fingers.

“I am assuming you came by with ideas for her name?”

“Oh yeah.” Lestrade shoved his freehand into his pocket and produced a creased piece of paper.

Mycroft scanned it, “Charlie?”

“It’s a girl’s name too.”

“I am aware, but we are not naming her after pop fiction red heads, which eliminates Amy, Natasha, and Annie as well.”

“It was worth a shot.”

“I like Kaitlyn though, what do you think?”

Lestrade shrugged, “I like all the names, I spent a long time thinking about the list. But she is your kid so it is up to you.”

“Kaitlyn then.” Mycroft said smiling.

Lestrade disengaged his hand from Kaitlyn’s grasp and said, “I could not help but notice that you called her Mary’s child the other day.”

“Oh, yes. My suspicion arose when I noticed her red hair. Red hair is a defective gene, and is not in John’s genetic code. I had her tested and the results were that he was not her father.”

“How did he take that?”

“My brother tells me that he was relived, I allowed him to break the news.”

After he finished eating Lestrade checked his watch and sighed, “I have an appointment.” he said standing up. “But before I forget, I saw this in a shop and could not help myself.” He handed a plush umbrella to Kaitlyn grinning, “Now you two match.”

Fondness for the man in front of him stirred within Mycroft. Perplexed and needing more time to evaluate it, he thanked Lestrade and watched him walk out the door.


	8. Proposing and Planning

It was a warm night and Sherlock lay with his cheek pressed against the rough skin of John’s chest. John was lazily playing with the mass of curly black hair in front of him. The detective had been tracing the old scars across John’s stomach absentmindedly. His hand halted on one for several minutes and John shifted underneath him.

“Something on your mind?”

Sherlock turned his head up to look at John, “I love you,” he said quietly, “and I assume you love me.” John rolled his eyes at this, “I have been wondering, do you want to get married?”

John’s brow furrowed and Sherlock anxiously added, “We don’t have to, it was just an idea, stupid really. It’s just that it would add legal benefits to our relationship...”

“No, no, its not that. I never though you would be interested. The thought had occurred to me too.” John grinned, “Are you proposing?

“In a sense, yes. I did not get you a ring though.”

“Then yes, I will marry you.”

Sherlock let out a contented sigh and nestled closer to John.

“One condition.” the blond man continued.

“Hm?”

“We choose a different venue.”

 

The next morning Sherlock sent out a mass text. John was unaware of this until his phone began receive a text a minute. Among the sea of well wishes he was surprised to see his sister had texted him. She was confused, not understand why he was getting married, didn't get married like a year ago? He quickly updated her and after a long chain of unpleasant words directed at his ex she congratulated him.

He left the bed room and called into the sitting room, “Sherlock, how did you get my sister’s number?”

“It’s on her Facebook page.” Sherlock muttered typing rapidly. On John’s laptop.

Resigning to the fact John made them both coffee and went to deliver a mug to the detective and find out what he was up to.

As he approached Sherlock looked up frowning, “How does a best man work in a wedding between two men? Do we both get one?”

John shrugged, “I don’t know, I have never married a man before. I think we just agree on one.” he squinted at the screen, “Are you already planning the wedding?”

“Obviously John. The place I have in mind for the reception is exceptionally difficult to book, but luckily I snagged a reservation in three weeks.”

“Three weeks” John said weakly, “how much of this have you planned?”

“I have got the catering and flower arrangements in order, the guest list written out, and a DJ. I am still working on seating arrangements and chapel-” he stopped abruptly, “If you feel like I am taking too much control tell me, you can change anything you want.”

“Its a relief, actually. After the last one, I just want to go and have a good time.” John replied taking a sip of coffee, “Where are you planning the reception that is so hard to book?” He was imaging some elite restaurant or victorian hall.

Sherlock cleared his throat and looked away from John, “I heard this place did weddings, and well...” too flustered to continue he pulled up a web page and handed the laptop over to him.

“The Natural History Museum,” John said grinning, “I should have guessed. Do I want to know how much this will cost?”

“Nope,” Sherlock replied whisking the laptop away from him, “I have contacts, it will be taken care of.”

 

An hour later Sherlock shut the laptop and ran a hand through his hair, “I wish seating was more simple. The compatibility of our guests is difficult to predict.” He muttered in frustration.

“I will take care of it, get some thing to eat. We have some potato salad in the fridge” John said taking the laptop back to his seat and opening the guest list file.

Mrs Hudson  
Gavin Lestrade  
Molly Hopper  
Harry Watson  
Mike Stamford  
Mother  
Father  
Mycroft Holmes  
Angelo  
James Sholto  
Who ever else John suggests.

John smiled at the end, “You realize you only came up with,” he paused to count, “ten people.”

There was a grunt from the other room.

“I wonder if we can convince the major to come, after last time.”

Sherlock wandered back with the container of potato salad and a fork, “I will assure him I handpicked our photographer and screened her personally.”


	9. The Long Awaited Wedding

Sherlock paced back and forth, back and forth, anxiously waiting for his cue. Lestrade stood a few feet away leaning against the church wall, he had given up his attempts to calm him down. Sherlock paused to study himself in the reflection from a stain glass window. He straighten his boutonniere, which consisted of a dark purple calla lily flanked by two gold ones. He had done this so many times the pin would leave a permanent hole in his suit.

“Sherlock, it’s time.” The DI’s words reached him and his legs nearly gave out. He wobbled sightly as he made his way to the door and Greg shook his head, “You should have had John do this.”

Looking anywhere but the the sea of faces staring at him Sherlock half ran down the isle. This was actually happening.

As he made his way he began questioning himself. He was Sherlock Holmes, the ex-junkie sociopath. He solved crimes as an alternative to getting high. He was a freak. What the hell was he doing getting married? He glanced up at John who winked and grinned. Thats was why.

Feeling as if he were in a dream Sherlock stood in front of John, barley aware of the man speaking next to them. He mumbled, repeating the words they had rehearsed, exchanging the script with John. After what felt like a century or maybe seconds he said, “I do.”

He lowered his face to kiss John and his arms slid around John’s waist. There was applause but none of it mattered, all that was important was John. Their lips parted and he pressed his forehead against John’s. Tears escaped the corners of Sherlock’s eyes and dripped from his cheekbones onto the shorter man’s face. “I love you.” he whispered.

“I love you too,” John whispered back, and he slid his palms under the detective’s jaw, wiping the tears away with his thumbs. They turned to the crowd and Sherlock allowed John to guide him down the isle.

The guests filed out to head to the reception, but Sherlock and John hung back for pictures watching the procession. Last to depart was Mr Holmes shepherding Mrs Hudson and his wife as they sniffed into handkerchiefs.

 

After pictures they slid into the back of their car. John moved suddenly, grabbing the driver by the shoulders and roughly pulling him over the seat before he could start the engine. He pinned him to the floor and held a gun drawn from who knows where to the man’s head. Sherlock looked at him in confusion, “John? Wha-”

“It’s fucking him.” He said through clenched teeth gesturing to the man under him.

Sherlock glanced down and realized with mingled shock and horror that he was looking at James Moriarty.

“It was rude not to invite me.” He said in a squished sort of way.

“Sherlock what do we do?”

Sherlock glanced out of the window and Jim mumbled, “You won’t find any snipers. You had to go and ruin the fun. I had the whole thing planned-” John hit the butt of the gun against the base of his skull and Jim’s body slackened, unconscious.

Sherlock called Mycroft and spoke quickly before stowing his phone in his pocket. “There will be people to collect him when we get there, I will drive, you keep the gun on him.”

 

They arrived at the museum a few minutes later and Lestrade took over guard duty so John and Sherlock could greet the guests. Most of them had already situated themselves inside, but cars that had been stuck in traffic were still pulling up. Mycroft emerged from one carrying a toddler with curly red hair. He sauntered slowly over to them.

John looked at the child in his arms and to his surprise did not feel any anger or betrayal. She watched him with curious green eyes as Mycroft and Sherlock discussed what had happened in the car.

“Egg!” she said excitedly looking past John.

“Egg?” John repeated.

“It’s her first word.” Mycroft said proudly and Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“I think you will find it is part of her first word,” he said pointing to the man approaching them, “Hello, egg.”

“What?” Lestrade asked coming to stand with them.

“Nothing.” Sherlock said winking at John who resisted the urge to step on his foot.

“Come on Gregory.” Mycroft tsked walking into the hall.

Once Mycroft and Lestrade were out of earshot John turned to reprimand Sherlock. However, before he said a word someone clapped him roughly on the shoulder and he jumped. John turned to find a woman with short turquoise hair grinning at him.

“It has been a long time, brother.” She said before embracing him tightly. He was surprised to feel powerful muscles flex under Harry’s suit as he hugged her back.

When she released him John said, “You are looking good.”

“Thanks. I bet our old man is turning in his grave. Two homosexuals.” She shook Sherlock’s hand, “You take care of my little brother.”

“He mostly takes care of me.” Sherlock replied truthfully.

They walked into the hall together, the Diplodocus skeleton looming overhead, and Harry elbowed John. “Who's the brunette?”

“Thats Molly Hooper but i don’t think she-”

“You didn’t think you were either, so I will trust my judgment. See you later.”

“Good luck to Molly.” John said in a low voice watching his sister make her way across the hall.

“She's tough.” Sherlock said with a fond smile.

 

Food was served and Sherlock moved his chair closer to John’s so their legs were pressed together. Now that they were officially together he resisted the urge to lean completely against him. The detective spun the ring on his finger and glanced up to scan the guests. At the table closest to them Mummy was sharing her food with the toddler and his brother was talking quietly with Lestrade. They were seated close together, closer than causal friends, and he could almost see Lestrade wondering if he should put his hand on Mycroft’s freckled one.

A few tables over Molly was giggling at something John’s sister said. Harry was lounging in her chair and began speaking after the laughter had died down, smiling at the girl next to her. He spotted his landlady chatting excitedly with Angelo and Mike Stamford at one of the corner tables. Sholto, who sat alone, was pushing his food around his plate and keeping a wary eye on the table occupied by John’s rowdy pub mates.

Before Sherlock could look around at the other guests he felt John’s hand on his. “Eat something, will you? I won’t have you starving on our wedding night, and I know you did not eat breakfast or lunch.”

Sherlock guiltily took a bite of food.

 

When most of the guests had finished eating a handsome black and gold frosted cake was wheeled out. As waiters distributed slices of it Sherlock removed a bouquet of flowers from the nearest vase and traced the ribbon binding the stems thoughtfully. “John, what is the tradition with the bride and bouquet?”

“I think that the deal is the bride throws it, and who ever catches it is the next to get married.”

“I thought so.” He replied before pulling his arm back and launching it into the air.

It hit Mycroft in the back of the head and the toddler squealed delightedly as he turned his murderous gaze to his brother.

“Honestly John, you can’t just throw flowers at people.” Sherlock chided loudly, but he faltered when he noticed the glint in his husband’s eye.

“There is another common tradition.” John said sweetly, his hand reaching for his slice of cake. In one quick motion he smeared it across Sherlock’s face.

“Really John?” Sherlock monotoned as Greg cheered.

When he attempted to retaliate John dodged out of his chair. “You are going to have to try harder than that to hit Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.”

“Don’t tempt me.” Sherlock grumbled as John picked two larger remanence of cake off his face and ate one. He fed the other to Sherlock before gently wiping his face off with a napkin. John chuckled to himself, Sherlock looked like a sulking little kid.

The detective suddenly perked up excitedly. John gave him a questioning look and Sherlock said, “It is almost time for the dance.”

“Promise not to leave early this time?”

“Not with out you.”

“Not even for a murder?”

“Not even for a murder.”

 

They danced slowly, their bodies melded together. Sherlock lowered his head to John’s neck, blissfully inhaling his scent. He smelled almonds, which brought him back to the kiss in the kitchen all those months ago. Back when they were just flatmates. No, they had always been more than that.

 

That night John stared lovingly at his sleeping husband. He was still wearing his suit from the wedding, and he was sleeping softly on the bed. Sherlock was beautiful.

He slipped into bed next to Sherlock took one of his hands in his own. John kissed the pale knuckles, remembering a time when his husband’s slender arms has been decorated with nicotine patches. He thought of the wasted years he had spent ignoring, rejecting their connection. Those desperate attempts to appease a long dead father seemed foolish now.

He felt he should make a promise, another vow, here in the dark. Suddenly every word in his mind seemed inadequate to express his thoughts. The speech he had given at the tombstone came back to him along with the speech Sherlock had given at his first wedding.

“Ah, um, I know I said this once before, but I am going to say it again now. Before I met you I was alone. So alone.” he took a deep breath, “I promise I will always be there for you, always.” he chuckled, “Be it in an ally chasing a serial killer, or a light house in the middle of the Atlantic, or a stolen tour bus speeding across London.”

He leaned over and gently kissed Sherlock before whispering, “Just the two of us against the rest of the world.”

**Author's Note:**

> This work can also be found on my Deviant Art Account, DragonHaven42


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